Clash, Israel, the cymbals, touch the lyre,
Sound the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn,
Chant hymns of victory till the heart take fire,
The Maccabean spirit leap new-born !

"'O World-God, give me Wealth ! " the Egyptian cried.
His prayer was granted. High as heaven, behold
Palace and Pyramid ; the brimming tide
Of lavish Nile washed aU his land with gold.
Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet.
World-circling traffic roared through mart and street.
His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings enshrined,
Set death at naught in rock-ribbed cliarnels deep.
Seek Pharaoh's race to-day and ye shall find
Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.

" O World-God, give me beauty ! " cried the Greek.
His prayer was granted. All the earth became
Plastic and vocal to his sense ; each peak.
Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame,
Peopled the world with imaged grace and light.
The lyre was his, and his the breathing might